Redoux
by Tango Dancer
Summary: After the events in Washington, Bucky Barnes is lost in a haze of broken programming and disjointed memories. With no orders and no identity, he can only wander alone, searching for purpose. Scarred in body and soul, Ryann Black sees her reflection in the empty eyes of an assassin, and decides to take a chance. Fem!HP Ryann/Bucky


**Hello everyone! I'm back. No, not really. I'm still no closer to finishing _Dawn of the Moonfang_ than I was two months ago. I'm sorry. **

**Well, this is a oneshot, and my first Avengers fic, so I hope you'll like it. I've just been watching a lot of CAWS and Bucky's really my favorite MCU character along with Tony, so I needed to write him a story.  
**

 **Please do tell me about any grammar/spelling horrors you spot: while I did proofread myself, I'm not a native English speaker so things probably slipped through the net.**

 **Anyway, on to the story, I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

 **Redoux (French): (of ice, snow, or another frozen substance, such as food) become liquid or soft as a result of warming.**

* * *

The man was standing at the very edge of the sidewalk. He didn't fiddle with his phone, didn't bob his head to unheard music. He was just standing there, and to the untrained eye, it would probably seem like he was just waiting for someone, a cab, maybe.

To her, however, it was obvious. It was in the way his eyes kept flickering all around, from the cars driving past, to the gigantic skyscrapers around them, to the people hustling and bustling up and down the street. It was in the tense line of his shoulders, the tightness of his mouth, the quick movement of his chest, the barely hidden wildness in his eyes, the subtle tremor of the hair framing his face. Wet, she noticed. Like the rest of his clothing. As if he'd just been submerged in water.

Then, there was the way he kept his body angled, knees slightly flexed and hands brushing his thighs. Ready to flee, or attack. No doubt there was at least one weapon hidden somewhere on his person.

The man was lost, but beyond that, he was terrified. Probably traumatized, too, judging by his reaction to his—pretty common—surroundings.

It reminded her so much of her it hurt.

She'd been watching him for a while from her spot behind the counter of her Bookstore Café. He hadn't moved in the past two hours. She paused in her wiping, tossed the soaked paper towels in the trash. They bounced off the bag-covered plastic before settling down. The man was trained for combat, suffering from some kind of PTSD, and obviously unstable. Although he hadn't moved a muscle in several hours, it was only a matter of time before he snapped. She could tell by the way he jumped every time a car honked. She poured a cup of hot chocolate, grabbed a couple paper napkins and a slice of banana bread, then signaled at Kerry, her employee, that she would be taking a break, and walked out of the café. She crossed the street, then stopped a few feet away from the man.

She knew first hand how dangerous war veterans could be.

"Excuse me."

The man startled and whipped around, hand going for his thigh. She'd been right. Definitely a weapon there. She waited patiently as his eyes fluttered left and right before finally settling on her. He didn't speak.

"You look cold," she said, careful to keep her voice even and her hands in sight at all times. "Would you like some hot chocolate?"

She lifted the steaming cup slightly. His eyes darted to it, looking for a threat, then narrowed. She smiled at him, lifted the drink to her lips and took a sip, then opened her mouth to prove she had indeed swallowed it. She waited a bit, then held it out again. "It's not poisoned." The man didn't budge, eyes darting from the cup to her face and back again. A moment passed as he studied her intently, taking in her body language. Very slowly, he inched forward, fingers reaching out for the cup. His left arm, she noticed, he angled his body to hide. She'd seen it earlier, though. The red star on gleaming metal. Whatever had happened to him, it had been no laughing matter.

He recoiled when his lips first came in contact with the drink. She wasn't surprised. While it had been pleasantly hot to her, his lips were blue from the cold. The temperature difference between the two would be too great for him not to get burned. But he seemed to get used to it very fast, taking a sip and then waiting in tense silence, before drinking some more when nothing happened. His eyes never left her as he did. She watched him back, eyes calm and unwavering. His outfit was weird, to say the least. Heavy combat boots and dark combat pants, with fingerless gloves and a leather top cut off at the shoulder to reveal his metal arm. Probably for better maneuverability, she guessed. There was a utility belt at his waist and two holsters on his thighs, all empty. Definitely a fighter.

Her gaze scanned his face. He was handsome enough, in a rugged way, with brown hair framing his face and a bit of stubble on his cheeks. Her gaze lingered over the bruises, the cuts on his cheekbone and jaw, then drifted back up. His eyes were a very clear blue, cold like a glacier.

A long shiver ran down his spine as warmth seeped back into his bones. His shoulders loosened a little. She smiled at the sight, tentatively held out the banana bread. "If you're hungry." Again, she demonstrated that it wasn't poisoned, then gave it to him, relishing in the way his eyes widened when he took the first bite. It was like he'd never had something good to eat before. He ate fast, devouring the bread like a ravenous beast. Or, a small voice said in her mind, like a man who knew his food could be taken from him anytime. When he was done, he gulped down the rest of the hot chocolate and handed the cup back to her. She took it with a smile.

"Would you like to come inside?" She asked, gesturing at the Bookstore Café across the street. "It's quiet and warm. You could also change clothes."

He shook his head, already tensing again. "Alright," she nodded. "If you ever need somewhere to go, though, you're always welcome. My name is Ryann Black."

He was already gone. For a man with a metal arm, he blended in surprisingly well. Her grip tightened, crushing the paper between deceptively slender fingers. As she headed back to the Three Moons, she prayed that, whoever he was, this man would find peace at last.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, she found herself thinking of the mysterious man, wondering where he was and if he was safe. There was no sign of him anywhere, but she supposed it was for the better. The hunted look in his eyes hadn't left her since that day. And from what she was hearing about the scandal about an intelligence agency that had supposedly been infiltrated by the enemy for years, the man had probably been involved in the battle that had taken place that day. He was probably running from one of the parties involved, if not both.

"See you tomorrow, Ryann!" Kerry called as she approached the door.

"Have a good night!" It was dark out, the asphalt reflecting the street lights. It had been drizzling all day, and would be for a few more days, if the weather forecast was to be believed. All the better: rain was good for business. Nothing motivated people to read and have a hot drink more than a few days of bad weather. She switched the door sign to "closed," then locked up the door and turned off the lights before climbing the stairs at the back that led to her apartment. The place was small, a simple one-bedroom with a cozy living room, a kitchen, and a large bedroom with an attached bathroom, but she didn't need anything more.

She held the door open for the cats—lean and fast, although they were steadily working at getting bigger, both through natural growth and a steady effort to eat anything in reach—and smiled as they darted past. She'd found them in an alleyway not too far away from the café, drenched and scared. It had been right after her encounter with the metal-armed man, actually. Two months later, they had settled in well, and loved to lounge on the windowsill during the day. They were actually responsible for drawing in more than a few customers: people often did a doubletake after the usual passing glance at the shop when they realized the cats were indeed real, and stopped to coo at them. Sometimes, they came in to pet them and grab a snack at the same time. Sometimes they didn't.

She'd barely closed the door when she felt it. She whirled, flexing her knees, ready to defend, but they were faster. She slammed into the wall with a pained cry, quickly strangled by a heavy hand over her mouth. When the cold feel of metal settled across her throat, she froze, heart hammering away in her chest, breathing sharp and fast. She felt like she was suffocating, darkness hovering at the edges of her vision as old memories threatened to take over. She blinked them back fiercely, squinting to try and get a glimpse of her attacker. It was a man, of that she was sure, taller than her by at least six inches.

Slowly, he took his hand off her face. She didn't dare move, knowing he'd slit her throat before she could do anything.

"I don't want to hurt you." His voice was rough, wrecked at the edges, as if he hadn't used it much. She waited for him to continue, but he kept silent.

"What do you want, then?" She edged.

"I need...medical attention." He sounded like it physically pained him to admit it, or maybe it was whatever wound he was suffering from. Whatever the case, he obviously didn't want to go to the hospital.

"I can't do anything if you have a knife at my throat," she said, careful to keep her voice steady. He tensed, and for a brief second, she thought she'd made a mistake, but then the metal left her skin, and he took a step back. She straightened, wincing. No doubt her back would be bruised in the morning. She could already feel a bump forming at the back of her skull. The man followed her into the living room, and through there to the bedroom, so close she could feel his breath on her neck. She turned on the bedside lamp, walked into the bathroom and gestured for him to sit on the stool. He did, and she rummaged through the cabinet before extracting her first-aid kit. When she turned to look at him, she stopped, stunned.

The metal arm was unmistakable. She opened her mouth, then closed it again at the sight of the gun steadily pointed at her by those metal fingers. Instead, she focused on the matter at hand. The injury wasn't difficult to pinpoint: his side was dripping blood all over the floor. Reaching out slowly, she peeled the soaked shirt off the wound with a grimace and helped him out of it, silently marveling at his compliance. Grabbing a clean towel, she set to cleaning the skin, and heaved a quiet sigh of relief when it turned out the gash, although deep, was superficial enough not to require professional treatment. Although she had no proper medical training, she'd practiced field medicine enough during the war to know how to stitch up injuries.

Once she was done, she bandaged the wound and cleaned up her supplies, dropping the blood-soaked towels in the tub. The man didn't move as she quickly wiped the red off the floor, his gaze a steady weight on her back. The gun was nowhere to be seen.

Ryann moved into the bedroom, ruffled through the drawers for a shirt that would fit him. He was tall and muscular, and obviously not female, but she still had some of Draco's clothes. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply. For all of his anti-muggle spiels, the blond had taken to muggle clothing like a fish to water, relishing in how comfortable they could be after she'd introduced him to sweatpants and t-shirts. "Ugly," he'd say, wrinkling his nose at his reflection, "but appropriate for leisure days." He'd bought quite the number of baggy t-shirts and sweatpants after that, and religiously worn them every time he had a free day. Precious times. She wished they'd lasted forever.

"Here," she said at last, handing him a dark gray shirt. "It should fit."

He pulled it over his head, jumping slightly as Kit padded over to inspect him, Kat not too far behind. When the cats judged him worthy enough to intrude and retreated, he relaxed again, standing awkwardly by the bed. She sighed.

"Come on." He followed her into the kitchen, sitting stiffly on one of the two chairs. She moved around the table, gathering ingredients for a pot of hot chocolate.

"You're Ryann Black." She turned from her stirring, surprised to hear him speak, but nodded anyway.

"I am. What's your name?"

He paused, eyes going hazy. She gave up on the answer after a while, unsurprised. "I...don't know."

She froze but carefully didn't turn, tilting her head to show she was listening. "I was...There's this guy...he keeps calling me 'Bucky,' but I don't—I have these flashes, and I feel like I know him, like I should recognize him, know that name he keeps calling me but at the same time it's like..." He trailed off, and she nodded even as she poured the hot chocolate into two mugs and perched a couple marshmallows on top. Setting one of the mugs in front of him, she grabbed a plate of cookies and sat across from the man with her own mug.

"Do you want to remember?" She asked gently.

He flinched. "I—There are horrible things. If I want to remember him, Bucky, I need to remember the rest, too, and I've seen enough to know it's not pretty."

"How so?"

He let go of the mug he'd unconsciously wrapped his hands around, slumping a little in his seat as he splayed his fingers on the table and studied them. "I've killed people. So many people. I can see their faces, those I remember, hear their screams, their pleas. I don't even know why I did it, just that I had to."

He looked up, watching her intently. If he was looking for fear or hatred, he would be disappointed: she'd seen and heard far worse than an assassin talking about their kills. And this one didn't even sound particularly vicious or pleased. If anything, he sounded...horrified.

"Why did you have to?"

"I—don't know?" Tentative at best. He wasn't telling her everything, but she'd heard enough to infer the rest.

"Someone told you to, then. Did you want to do it?" He shook his head, mutely. "Did you like it?"

He frowned, grabbing onto his mug like a lifeguard. "I don't think so."

"And you forgot everything."

"I'm starting to remember."

She nodded to acknowledge the correction. "I had a friend," she said at last, "a very precious friend. She was incredibly smart. She would spend hours reading in the library. Whenever she came across something she couldn't understand, whenever her curiosity was piqued, she'd dash to the library to research the matter. She was also very loyal, always stuck by me even through the hardest times. And those were dark times indeed. Terrorists were attacking everywhere, no one was safe." She took a sip. "One day, she disappeared. We looked and looked, but couldn't find her. After a couple months, the terrorists' weapons started improving dramatically, becoming sharper, more precise. They started dealing incredible damage wherever they went. Their tactics improved, too, and then, they introduced their newest strategist." Her eyes were burning.

"It was my friend. She—" she swallowed. The words were like sand in her throat. "By the time they introduced her, her tactics had killed hundreds upon hundreds of people. I lost my boyfriend to them. Her boyfriend charged in one day, when he realized she wasn't coming back, and died at her hand. A lot of us died when she started fighting. Because, even though she was with them now, we knew where her heart truly lay. We knew they'd done this to her, that she wasn't willing." She looked up, straight into his eyes. "It wasn't her fault, and we never, ever resented her for what they forced her to do. Never."

She went to refill her mug, wiping her eyes at the same time. "What happened to her?"

She leaned her forehead against the cupboard. "She died. I killed her." She sat back at the table, absently adding marshmallows to her cup. "She thanked me, at the very end. She died in my arms, but whatever they'd done to her dispelled when she fell, and—"

He let her gather her composure, just sipping on his chocolate. He seemed better than the first time they met, she noticed through her grief. He wasn't inhaling the food like it was going to be taken away from him.

"This man—Steve, he won't kill me."

"He won't?"

"He says I'm—I was his best friend. That I'm a good guy." He barked a humorless laugh. "He doesn't know what I did."

"You don't either," she observed. "And how do you know that? Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he knows it wasn't your fault."

"And how would you know?" He snapped. "You don't know me! You don't know anything about me, so stop acting like you do!" The table cracked ominously when he banged his fist on it.

"You're right, I don't know you. But I know you've been through something horrible. I know you've been made to do terrible things, and I know you didn't want to do them because you wouldn't be agonizing over whether or not you should try to remember if you didn't. I also know you have a friend out there, a friend who believes in you and obviously shares a past with you. And I know you have a chance my friend never got." She wrapped her fingers around a metal wrist, ignoring the way he stiffened. "You have a chance at a do-over, a second life. You have a chance for an after. Don't waste it."

Rising from her seat, she set her mug in the sink and filled it with water, before leaving the kitchen. "You're welcome to stay the night if you want. I'll unfold the couch for you."

By morning, the blankets and pillow were lying untouched on the couch.

* * *

Sometimes, she thought she saw him out the corner of her eye. He'd be standing a distance away, watching. His clothes were always different, and his hair usually concealed under a cap or a hood of some sort. But every time she turned, a welcoming smile on her face, or a question on her lips, or even a frown on her brow and her muscles tense at the certainty of being watched, he was always gone.

* * *

The next time she saw him, she was window-shopping. Christmas was coming, and the streets were inundated with pretty lights and decorations. She enjoyed this time of the year, the almost tangible anticipation in the air, the children's excitement as they ran around, the sound of Christmas carols in the air. People were kinder in the weeks preceding Christmas, more cheerful, too, eager to be reunited with their families for a few days. It reminded her that humanity wasn't lost after all. It would be lonely for her once more, but she would treat herself to some expensive clothes and tons of candy to compensate.

She was admiring a particularly drool-worthy edible arrangement when she spotted him, or rather, his reflection. He was standing a few feet behind, watching her. She paused, deliberating on what to do. Go to him? Or wait for him to come to her. In the end, she decided waiting would only give him the opportunity to slip away, and so she turned, smiling slightly.

"Hello." He nodded back, looking tense. "Do you have time? Window-shopping is always better with company, and shop-owners sometimes come up with the prettiest things."

He blinked but didn't move away, so she slipped her arm under his and tugged him forward, pointing at the candy bouquet she'd been looking at earlier, explaining the concept to him. His eyes widened in wonder, and she felt a curl of warmth unfurl in her gut. They moved on, Ryann pointing out things to the man—she really needed to get his name—as he looked on in growing interest. She wondered what they had done to him for him not to remember the simplest of things.

They ended up on a bench overlooking the Potomac River, hands deep in their pockets and faces buried behind their scarves. He was well-dressed, she noticed, with a heavy jacket and a thick scarf, although he still wore combat pants and heavy duty jackboots. It suited him, hair whipping around his face in the cold winter wind.

"You look better," she commented after a while.

"I feel better." He paused, eyes for once lazily taking in the river instead of scanning the surroundings. Oh, he was still alert, and she had no doubt he had several weapons concealed on his body, but he was relaxed enough to actually take in what he was looking at instead of dismissing anything that wasn't a threat.

"That's good," she said, and she meant it.

"I suppose."

"Did you see him again? Steve."

He tensed at the name, surprised she remembered, maybe, then relaxed. He huffed, a single strand of brown hair fluttering.

"I did. He's got his own group now. He says I'm welcome to join them, that none of them resent me for anything, but—he chose me when it came down to it, and it almost destroyed him."

She waited. He knew she didn't understand, not completely, that there was no way he could tell her just exactly who Steve was, who he was and what it was that had transpired between them. That he'd been at the heart of the destructive fight that had come so close to annihilating a good portion of the superhero community, and with it the friend who held him so dear even when he couldn't yet reciprocate.

"There's this guy in his group. Rich, eccentric, a total asshole, and the most generous, courageous man you'll ever meet." He paused. "This guy, he loves Steve with everything he is. But he had to keep up appearances when it came to me, had to protect more than just Steve, and so he went the long way to ensure my safety. But Steve, he—when it comes to me, he's mad. He didn't listen. He broke up with Tony, and started a fight. I didn't know."

He ran a hand down his face tiredly, and she inched closer to him, just a tad, not enough to really touch him, but enough that he'd feel her offer of comfort.

"I only met Tony after that. When we came face to face, I had no idea what he was doing. We attacked him at full power, and I almost killed him. I only realized after, at the hospital when nothing happened to both Steve and I, what he'd done. But it was already too late. Steve was—" he trailed off, looking away.

"Did he die?" Her voice was soft, even.

"He made it, although only just. I left then. Steve didn't notice."

"So you think there's no room in his life for the both of you?"

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, obviously uncertain. She spared a thought to wonder why he was coming to her of all people to confide in.

"That's bollocks. Just because he's got a lover now doesn't mean there's no room for his best friend. Especially if he went as far as to start an entire war over you. Granted, he didn't handle it in the best way and it nearly cost him dear, but that doesn't mean you should just disappear after all the trouble he went through to ensure your safety. And if this Tony is as fantastic as you make him sound, he won't have any problem with your return, especially if he knows just why you did what you did." She turned to look at him. "Have a little more faith in them, alright? They sound like decent folks."

"They are."

"So what are you afraid of?"

And that was the question, wasn't it? Why was he so afraid to go to Steve, to accept that he could be forgiven, and use his skills for good instead of the evil he'd been forced to commit since his fall?

"I don't want to be used again." It was only part of the truth, and he knew it, but she accepted it for what it was. The beginning to an answer, and maybe a sliver of trust. That he'd come to her at all said a lot already, and she knew it took time to heal from the kind of wound he'd been dealt, so she'd give it to him.

When she rose, he followed her.

And in the next morning, there was fresh coffee waiting for her on the kitchen table.

The kitchen itself was empty.

* * *

She was still sleeping when he left. He'd stood at her bedroom door, hovering over the threshold, watching her. She usually closed the door, he knew from previous recon, but she didn't when he was there. He didn't understand why. Even if she didn't know exactly who he was, they'd talked enough for Ryann to know that he was a dangerous man, and that he could kill her so fast she wouldn't know what happened before she hit the floor.

Yet, she slept with her door open, and there she was, lying vulnerable and abandoned in her bed, a halo of dark curls peeking out from under the duvet, one slim hand hanging over the edge of the bed. She looked dead, and he found himself watching for the steady rise and fall of her breathing under the duvet, barely there but obvious enough for his enhanced eyes.

Somehow, it appeased him.

How this woman, a stranger, could calm him like this, he had no idea. It left a sour taste in his mouth and his heart clenching in his chest, and yet—he looked at that hand again, and dared to cross into the room, two steps bringing him next to her bed. Glancing at her face, he wondered how, after all she had lived through, she could be so peaceful. His sleep was always tormented by visions of bloodied corpses and pleads, the anguished screams of his victims and barked orders of his handlers, and the pain. "Wipe him," they would say, and the words echoed in his dreams over and over again, like a stain that would never fade.

This woman, he didn't know what it was. In a sense, she was a little like Steve, forced to fight against a brainwashed friend, and yet...yet at the same time—

His fingers itched to touch. He bent over, wrapped his flesh fingers around her wrist and, very gently, set her arm back on the bed. Her skin was soft. There were calluses on the pads of her fingers.

 _I killed her._

She understood a little, because her hands, too, were red with her friend's blood.

Her breathing hitched.

He left the room as silently as he'd walked in, and set a cup of steaming coffee on the kitchen table before he left the apartment.

* * *

Bucky was...lighter. Steve had no idea what it was, but if even Tony, as immersed in his engineering binges as he was, had noticed, then he definitely hadn't imagined it. Where, before, there had only been empty eyes and a shell of a man haunting the tower, now the former assassin was slowly opening up, leaving the tower for hours on end and coming back with something that Steve would call a spring to his step if it wasn't sure to get him punched.

Today was one such day. The former assassin had just come back from wherever he was spending his free time, and was now fixing himself some hot chocolate—and where the hell had he even learned to make any? Last time Steve had checked, the man couldn't boil water without burning everything in a ten feet range.

"He's better," Natasha said softly. Steve tilted his head toward her: she was looking at Bucky with thoughtful green eyes, taking in all the small details that made the difference between the Winter Soldier and Bucky. She glanced up at him after a few seconds of silence, gaze serious. "Don't ask about it, Steve. He'll tell you on his own time."

He nodded, slowly. Although he wouldn't ever do anything to jeopardize his friend's recovery, he was dying to find out just what was going on, to make sure Bucky wasn't being manipulated, and, if this change was due to a person, someone trustworthy, hug them to an inch of life.

* * *

Ryann shot up in bed. She didn't know what it was, but the certainty was niggling at her mind that something was wrong. She stilled, heart racing in her chest, listening. The room was dark, and so was the hallway beyond the half-open door but...there. It was nothing, barely a whisper, but she heard it.

The sound of a man in pain.

She was out of bed in a flash, her robe draped over her shoulders. She darted down the hall, following the whimpers and moans, and froze. Someone was sleeping on the couch, tangled in the sheets, their form writhing in the throes of a nightmare. A timid sliver of moonlight reflecting off of a piece of metal gave away their identity, and she calmed, only to tense up again when he let out a breathless moan.

He was lethal, she knew that. If she woke him up like a normal person, she'd probably be dead before he regained his full consciousness. She'd come across that problem often enough on the battlefield, when her men—her friends, sometimes, or even herself—would have a nightmare and attack anyone foolish enough to come close. Reflexes and instincts were everything in war. She knew better than to touch an unconscious veteran, especially one as well-trained and as traumatized as Bucky—Yasha, as he wanted to be called, was. So she did the only thing she could do: she stood a safe distance away, and, taking a deep breath, barked out "Wake up, sergeant!"

There was a knife at her throat before she knew it, the steel cold against her skin, and his metal hand wrapped so tight around her arm she thought she could feel the bones grinding against each other, and she couldn't hold a grimace of pain. "Yasha..." His grip tightened, and she fought the urge to struggle, the memories of another grip on her, cold and unrelenting and deadly. "It's Ryann," she started, to distract herself as much as to appease him, "we met in Washington DC. You were dripping water on the sidewalk, just standing there, and—" she talked and talked, and when his fingers unwrapped at last, her throat was sore and her voice raspy. Outside, the first lights of dawn were filtering from over the horizon. The day would be bright, cloudless.

Yasha's eyes cleared, widening in horror as he lowered them to his hands and realized what he was doing. He let go like he'd been burnt, stumbling away. The knife fell to the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

"Are you alright?" Ryann croaked when he raised a trembling hand to his eyes. His head whipped to her. His mouth was a tight line of disgust, terror and confusion, the haze of his nightmares not yet fully dissipated.

"Am I—Ryann, I...!" his voice broke, and she took a step forward, only for him to scramble backwards, hands raised in defense. Ryann stopped dead once more, ice filling her heart. "I almost killed you!"

"You didn't," she assured, as calmly as she could. "I'm fine, see?" She spread her arms and half-twirled, not wanting to let him out of her sight, if only for a second. She knew too well just how easy it was for him to vanish without a trace.

"No, you're not." His eyes trailed to her bare arm, and the rapidly purpling, finger-shaped bruise, then her throat and the thin trail of dried blood running down the pale skin.

"You're not the first to try to kill me, and you probably won't be the last," she said, trying to convey just how much she didn't resent him "but at least I know you didn't do it on purpose." Ryann smiled, but he didn't reply. Instead, he shifted away.

"Please," she murmured, pressing forward, suddenly certain that if she lost him now, he'd never come back. "Don't go. I swear to you, I'm perfectly fine, and I've been through much, much worse. You've never hurt me before even though you had countless occasions to do so. I know you would never hurt me willingly. Please," she repeated, reaching out to him, trying to convey her sincerity through her eyes, "please stay."

He'd started popping up randomly after their Christmas encounter, showing up unannounced more and more often. Ryann hadn't realized just how lonely she was until he started slipping his way into her life. It wasn't much at first. Silently appearing at the end of the day, leaving a steaming cup of coffee on the table in the morning.

Then he started staying a little longer, and coming up more often, until the day when, as she went to put away the neatly folded sheets on the couch, she got a whiff of his smell, and smiled. Tonight was the first night she'd caught him in a nightmare, though, and she didn't want to lose him to it. She'd gotten used to his silent presence.

She cheered silently when he didn't refuse her touch, and when she dared to wrap him in a hug, he didn't move. Yet, although he didn't return it, he didn't move away either, and she counted that as a victory. She closed her eyes and inhaled, trying to commit his scent to memory. It felt like this, whatever this was, was just hanging by a thread, and each and every minute could damage it irreparably.

* * *

She had no idea what to expect when she walked into the restaurant. Yasha hadn't said anything about what type of place it would be, and what kind of clothing she should wear, so she'd opted for a dark green dress and amber jewelry which would compliment her eye color and skin tone nicely.

She certainly wasn't expecting the 1940s atmosphere, soft music playing from a spinning vinyl in the corner, wooden surfaces gleaming under dim lights and the staff clad in period attire. Most of the patrons were over the age of fifty, white hair and lines etched deep into paper-thin skin. She stood out like a sore thumb. She hesitated for a second, wondering if she had the right place, but that was enough for the closest waiter.

"Can I help you, miss?"

"I'm meeting my friend here...Yasha?" She had no idea if that was the name he'd used, or if he was even there yet, but she figured it would be better than nothing.

"Certainly," the man said, much to her relief. "This way, please."

He led her through the restaurant. She could feel eyes on her, people surprised to see someone so young in there, but she resolutely ignored them even as they politely returned to their meals. Yasha stood when he noticed her coming, a small smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "You came," he whispered, almost reverently, before bending over her hand in a perfect _baise-main_. He was clean-shaven, clad in a pitch-black suit—old-fashioned, she could tell, but it suited him— and shiny dress shoes, with his hair elegantly parted on the left. He looked like a gentleman from the 1940s. She smiled right back at him, taking the chair he pushed back for her, before ordering a drink as the waiter handed her a menu.

"I must admit," she said, "I certainly wasn't expecting this."

He tensed a little. "We can go somewhere else, if you—"

She smiled. "It's perfect. Besides, where I come from, people are much more old-fashioned than this. You wouldn't believe just how retarded they were. It often seemed like they got stuck in the Middle Ages."

"Surely you exaggerate."

"They use quills and parchment." He blinked, mouth dropping into a small 'o.' It stunned her every time, to see how far he'd come from the blank, empty shell of a man who'd vanished from the sidewalk to reappear in her apartment seeking medical help.

"...Oh."

"Exactly." She paused to thank the waiter as he set their glasses on the table. "I love this atmosphere. It's very relaxing."

"Where I come from was a lot like that, too."

Her eyes widened at that, and she leaned forward in interest. "Did you remember, then?"

"Bits and pieces," he shrugged, but it was nowhere near as nonchalant as he wanted it to be. "Impressions. Steve. War." She waited, silently. "He was my best friend, my brother. We grew up together in Brooklyn. Little punk kept getting himself in fights he had no chance to win. Guess who had to get him out every time?" He took a sip of wine, eyes glazed over with memories. "He's changed."

"So have you."

Their eyes met. His were warm, so different from that first time they met. His fingers slipped around hers. Ryann looked down and then back up, smiled at the uncertainty on his face. Conversation was light as they ate dinner. As they were waiting for desert, however, the music in the background changed, and Yasha perked up noticeably. "I remember this song," he whispered with a nostalgic smile on his face. She couldn't really understand what it meant for him, although the melody did have its charm. She watched as he stood, widening her eyes as he held his hand out to her. "Care to dance, doll?" She flushed at the nickname, but slipped her hand in his anyway, allowing him to pull her close and following his steps as he started dancing.

"There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover," he sang into her ear, "tomorrow, just you wait and see..."

Ryann lifted her face and couldn't tear her eyes away from his, the naked affection on his features, the gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. For the first time since they'd met, he was truly relaxed and open, and she smiled back, feeling more content than she ever had before. "There'll be love and laughter, and peace ever after, tomorrow, when the world is free..." His voice shook with emotion as he said the words, and she knew without having to ask that they held a much deeper meaning to him than just memories.

"Thank you," he whispered, pressing a kiss into her hair. She pulled away slightly to look at him, confused.

"For what?"

"Just—for being you. For opening your home and heart to me when I was obviously—not the most recommendable person."

She scoffed, resting her cheek on his shoulder again. "You're a good man, Yasha. What happened to you was a tragedy. I may not know half of it, but I trust you."

"You've gone through a lot," he said at last, and it wasn't really a question.

"War," she murmured, "like you did. I'll tell you about it, one day." His grip tightened on her waist, and she melted into his body. Flush against his body, with his hands holding her firmly, his heartbeat steady against her ear and his scent filling her nose, she wished this moment could last forever. Vera Lynn was still singing in the background, another love song from World War II, and she rubbed a comforting hand over his neck when she felt him heave with a sob.

At last, they parted, hovering close, so close she could feel his breath on her lips, and for a second, she thought he would kiss her. But then, he took a step back, his eyes deep and dark, before heading back to their table. They hadn't even noticed the waiter drop off their deserts. They ate the rest of their meal in shared chuckles and intense gazes, barely looking away from each other. It was cold when they walked out, and she burrowed into his side when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, humming the song from earlier under her breath as they walked.

"They called her 'The Forces' Sweetheart,'" Yasha said suddenly. "Dame Vera Lynn. She sang for the troops during the war. Swell dame. We were all pretty excited whenever she dropped by." She hummed, smiling even as she noted the plural, as if he'd been there. But she'd seen stranger than a seemingly immortal man, and so she didn't ask, just listened. "It was a difficult time, so the men were grateful for any distraction. No dames were allowed at camp, of course, so that made it even more of an event. She boosted soldier morale like you wouldn't believe."

"We didn't have anything like that," she confessed. "By the time the power struggle turned into an all-out war, most of the place had been conquered by the enemy, and we had to keep hidden of risk getting caught and tortured for information before having our corpses paraded as a warning. We only sang at the end of the war, a lament for the fallen."

"We make one hell of a pair," he commented, reveling in the small chuckle that elicited from Ryann. "Two war veterans with Shell Shock and a nasty bunch of secrets and blood clinging to us like a parasite."

Her laugh rang through the air, and, for once, so did his.

And that night, looking at Ryann's moonlit, sleeping face, James Buchanan Barnes thought, for the first time since he'd broken through the Winter Soldier programming, that maybe there really was a chance at a second life for him after all. If only he could stay with Ryann. If only she would accept him even after he told her everything. But she hadn't budged at his not-so-veiled admission to his past tonight, and maybe, maybe that meant there was hope.

* * *

"I shouldn't be doing this."

Ryann paused on the threshold. He was sat on her couch in the growing darkness, the warm sunset colors setting his metal arm ablaze. His hair hung freely around his face this time, eyes shadowed, hands clasped between his knees.

He usually stayed over now, always tense and wary, before relaxing as she snuggled up to him. Even after that first nightmare, it was as if he was afraid she would kick him out or take advantage of his sleeping in her bed to do something to him. She hated the implications. But she wasn't without her own issues, and she'd woken up wild-eyed and trembling more than once, only to fall back asleep to the sound of his voice murmuring in a foreign language—Russian, she thought it might be—and his arms wrapped around her, the metal warmed by hours under the covers.

"Why is that?"

His eyes darted from side to side, but never met hers. "I'm endangering you. People are looking for me. Dangerous people. They could hurt you. _I_ could hurt you."

Sighing, Ryann set her shopping bags aside. "We've talked about this, Yasha. I'm not afraid of you. I also know to be careful around war veterans, and I know you'd never hurt me willingly. As for the people after you, I think I know you and and your abilities enough to be fairly certain you've been more than careful whenever you come over that they won't ever find me through you." She shot him a quick smile. "Even if they do, let them come. I can handle myself."

Yasha shook his head. There was a weary line to his shoulders, one Ryann didn't care to see there. "They'll hurt you."

"Let them try." She grabbed his hands in hers, squeezing gently. She knew to be careful with his metal limb, knew how sensitive it could be, and that it pained him on occasion. "Look at me."

For the first time that evening, their eyes met. His, tired and dark with fear; hers, warm and resolute. He leaned into her touch when she cupped his cheek in her palm, her thumb rubbing gently against his stubble. "Forget about me," she whispered. "This place is your haven for as long as you need or want it. My door will always be open to you, whatever the circumstances."

It was a long moment before he answered, but his eyes seemed to defrost in that time, warming with a genuine sort of raw emotion she'd never seen there before. "How could I forget about you?" he murmured, flesh hand coming to rest against her neck as he stood. "You've welcomed me into your home, tended to my wounds and borne my behavior without complaint or question." He breathed in, long and deep. "They don't understand what is is to be unmade. Steve says I'm the same to him, that he'll help me remember and heal, but he doesn't get it. He doesn't understand that I'll never be the same ever again. He doesn't understand that Bucky's dead. There's only me now. But you—"

His face was close, so close she could feel his breath on her mouth.

"You know me."

When he kissed her, she welcomed his lips and his hands with all of her being. She didn't know when it had happened, when she'd let him into her heart on top of her life, when she'd opened up enough to let those feelings see the light. It wasn't much. The lonely cup of coffee steaming on the kitchen table, the warmth in glacier eyes, the gentleness in his movements whenever he touched her, the brushing of his hair against her knuckles when he bent to brush his lips over her skin... It wasn't much, but it was enough. He took her with a gentleness that spoke all that he didn't say, and she gave back equally, arching into his hands and moaning in ecstasy as their bodies fit together perfectly.

She hadn't let anyone into her bed since Draco. She knew she was risking a lot.

But she would rather have loved and lost, than had nothing at all. Or so she thought.

In the morning, when she woke up to a cold pillow and a deserted, silent apartment, there was only the familiar ache of crushing loneliness.

* * *

He'd never stayed more than a day. It was lonely, knowing he would be gone for however long without any knowledge of when he'd be back. If he was back at all. But when the weeks turned into months, she finally got it, what that intensity was that last night they'd had together. He'd been saying goodbye. Like everyone else, he'd gotten tired of her, or hadn't got what he expected, and he'd left, back to his people, to this Steve he kept talking about.

She didn't resent him. She knew first hand just how fucked up and ugly and useless she was.

That didn't make it hurt any less, though. She just wished that, instead of trying to be considerate and giving her one last embrace before vanishing into the night, he'd just been upfront about it and told her.

But she would manage. She always did.

Even if it felt almost felt as excruciating as when she'd lost Draco.

Even if each heartbeat felt like her heart was being ripped from her chest and torn into pieces of shattered glass.

* * *

She was on her way home from the Smithsonian when something shifted in the air. She tensed, fingers itching for a weapon she couldn't use anymore, brushed against the pair of daggers strapped under jacket. For a second, she considered the possibility that it might be Yasha, but discarded it almost immediately. The man hadn't shown up since that night, and he'd never projected that kind of coldness she was feeling right now. Whoever was watching her, they were radiating malice, and Yasha had never been like that. Sure, he was dangerous, lethal in more ways than one, but he wasn't... _evil_.

No. Yasha was gone, had been for five months. She'd gone through this enough times to know he wouldn't show up again. He'd left and never come back, and she knew in her heart he'd gone back to Steve and started over with his childhood friend and his team. She had nothing to offer, just a broken body littered with scars and a mind just as fractured, and he'd probably gathered that from their encounters. She was too damaged to be able to offer anything he might want. She wished she could say she was grateful for what he did give her, but she wasn't. She wished it had never happened, that she'd never spotted him that day, and that he'd never come to her afterwards. She wished he hadn't let her hope and believe that something good could happen to her once more, only to leave her behind when he finally realized he deserved better.

She looked up at the slightest scuffle of a footstep. They were behind a building, in a deserted street. The perfect place for an ambush. Two men were walking her way, relaxed and unhurried, but she knew their bearing enough to pinpoint the deadly intensity in their eyes, the slight bulges under their jackets, the lethal spring to their step. Killers, both of them.

The ones behind her, too.

She kept her pace, fingers brushing over her wrist, although they probably knew she was aware of their presence, and when they struck, so did she.

Groceries spilled all over the ground, the clatter of the tin cans on concrete drowning in the agonized scream of a dying man.

* * *

Bucky took one step forward. Just one.

"What did you say?"

Silence fell over the briefing room, as all eyes snapped over to him. Steve tensed, but didn't move to restrain him when he stalked forward, staring down the smug face of the man on the screen. The Avengers shared glances, concerned at the sudden shift in his attitude, even as the SHIELD agents present in the room fought the urge to reach for their weapons. This wasn't Bucky Barnes anymore. Straight, focused and ice-cold, this was the Winter Soldier.

"I said we have a guest. One you will probably be extremely glad to see again. It _has_ , after all, been some time since you last saw each other, hasn't it?" The man grinned, eyes glittering with cruel pleasure. " _Yasha._ "

The camera rotated slightly, to reveal a concrete cell with a woman hanging from her wrists in the center of the room, long black hair a veil over her features. But, by the way Bucky stiffened, there was no doubt he knew who it was without even having to see her face. The kidnapper reached out to brush the damp tresses back over her shoulders, revealing blood-stained, pallid features. She was unconscious, eyes closed and lips split, black blossoming over her cheekbone, red dripping from a gash on her hairline.

"Such a pretty thing, too," the man drawled, cupping her face and tilting it this way and that.

Bucky _snarled_. It was such an animalistic, basic sound they jumped. The mere sight of him was chilling. Leaning forward, his upper lip was curled up to reveal his teeth, eyes glittering with the promise of murder.

"You know what I want, SHIELD. Better hand over the Winter Soldier before this charming lady and I get to know each other...better." He leered. The metal arm whirred as Bucky struggled not to punch the screen. The man reached out to the unconscious woman again, pressing himself against her, but then, Bucky's snarl turned into a smirk.

Ryann's eyes snapped open. She struck. Her legs wrapped around the man's throat, squeezing even as he struggled to get free, but she only tightened her hold until all he could do was paw helplessly at her thighs before sliding to the ground lifelessly. "Moron," she spat, British accent thick even in that single word.

Then, she turned to the camera, verdant eyes widening as she caught sight of him.

"Yasha." It sounded strangled, like she couldn't believe it, like she didn't dare say the name. Bucky crowded close to the screen, as if it would get him closer to her, wishing he could touch her, feel the soft warmth of her skin, feel the tangled mess of curls between his fingers.

"Ryann, I'm sorry. I'll come get you, I—"

She tilted her head, listening to something the camera mike wouldn't let them hear. "It's fine. Not the first time I've been captured, remember? More are coming." She paused, eyes searching his face. How her gaze could hold such warmth when she'd been kidnapped and beaten because of him, when he'd abandoned her without a word all those months ago, he'd never know. It gave an edge to his murderous rage that he was almost afraid to think of. He didn't deserve her. "Listen, Yasha," she started softly, urgently, "don't you dare hand yourself over. I'll never forgive you if you do, got it?"

Her eyes were like chips of ice. Faced with her courage, he let his own slide shut. What had he done? "I never meant..." It came out weak, almost a whimper. _Pathetic_ , the voice of his last handler mocked at the back of his mind.

"I thought we'd been through this already. Clearly, I was wrong." She countered firmly, although not unkindly. She grimaced, spat out a mouthful of blood. "They'll be more careful now that I killed Mr Dumbfuck over here. You need to get me the key _pronto_." She paused again, then started talking, faster this time. "I counted ten, maybe twelve men. We're underground, I think. Some kind of military installation. It's hard to know. Be careful."

They could hear it now, footsteps coming, voices barking orders. "I'm coming." It was a pledge, an oath, one he wouldn't break. He'd left her alone all this time, believing he was keeping her safe, when he was actually leaving her defenseless after putting a big bullseye on her back. He couldn't believe how stupid and naive he'd been, not after all that Winter Soldier training. Not after realizing just how precious she was to him.

"You bet-"

A fist to the gut interrupted her as men swarmed the room, and then, it was cacophony of swearwords, orders and mocking insults snapped through blood-stained teeth in a thick British accent. She fought as well as she was able, kicking with an accuracy that spoke of rigorous training, pulling on her chains to give herself some leverage and swing around, but it wasn't enough against her opponents, and soon, she was unconscious again, for real this time, her body swinging limply from the ceiling. Then, the screen went black.

Silence filled the room, broken only by the spasmodic twitching of Bucky's metal fingers.

"Ryann Black, Barnes?" Fury barked. "Seriously?"

Bucky whipped around, fingers reaching for his gun even as he shrugged off Steve's comforting hand. "How do you know her?"

"Do you have any idea how much trouble we went through to hide her? How the fuck did you manage to get her involved with HYDRA?"

Bucky frowned, anger leaving room for confusion. "She's affiliated with SHIELD?"

"Ryann Black is part of the witness protection program," Coulson explained soothingly. "I don't know how much she's told you, but she's a war hero—" Bucky nodded "and she made a lot of enemies during that conflict. When she fled her country, she was granted protection by the government and was placed under SHIELD custody."

"There wasn't anyone watching her," Bucky cut in. "I would have noticed."

"We withdrew our agents over a year ago. She only gets monthly check-ins these days. She seemed well-accustomed to the country, and still has several weapons and emergency alarms at her disposal, not to mention an alarming amount of martial arts training." It was nothing he didn't know: she'd talked about the war, about her brainwashed friend, and it was hard not to notice the scars littering her body, the feline grace with which she moved, ready to spring at any time. Her eyes, cataloging all the exits and potential weapons whenever she walked into a room.

"Yet that didn't stop them from taking her," Clint interjected. "Either she got soft, or they went in with a lot of men. Just saying, Iceman," he raised his hands in surrender when Bucky glared.

Fury snorted. "Ryann Black is no fool. She overthrew an entire government at the age of twenty-two with a couple hundred people, half of them schoolchildren, and a bounty on her head." Bucky's breath caught, but he wouldn't let himself get distracted. He needed to focus. He needed to find her. Whatever this was about would come after.

If she still wanted to see him, that is.

"Anyway," Fury went on, ignoring the agents and Avengers' impressed looks, "those idiots signed their own death warrant by kidnapping her." Bucky's head snapped over to him.

"What do you mean?"

"She has a tracker in her wrist. She probably activated it as soon as they attacked her."

"JARVIS," Tony instantly ordered.

"Tracking," the AI replied as Tony fiddled with his phone until whatever was on his screen displayed on the briefing room's hologram. It was a map, pictures and names and locations flickering by quickly as JARVIS tracked the beacon. "Tracking complete. Displaying."

Tony scoffed. "New York? Are they serious?"

"You'd think they'd try to run as far as possible," Clint agreed.

"In that case, their stupidity works in our favor," Natasha stated, before turning to Fury. "What are your orders, sir?"

The man turned to Bucky, his one good eye dark and steely. "Get her back safely. And bring one of those morons back to me, if possible. I've got questions to ask them."

"You heard the director, suit up and meet at the Quinjet in five," Steve ordered.

Bucky was already out of the door, stalking down the corridors. Steve scrambled out after him, absently noticing the way people plastered themselves to the walls to stay out of the path of an enraged Winter Soldier and his blazing eyes. Finally, they made it to the hangar, and Bucky stopped long enough for Steve to ask. "Bucky..." But when his friend turned to him, his eyes were so empty, as if the mere perspective of this woman's death was killing him already, that he couldn't bring himself to ask. _Later,_ he promised himself. _Later. When we have her back._

The trip was silent, filled with Bucky's immeasurable anger boiling under the surface. His metal fingers clenched and unclenched fitfully, as if he dreamed of someone's neck collapsing in his grip, and when he slammed the mask over his lower face, Steve felt like he'd been sucker punched. It was like all those months, all this suffering had never occurred, because they were back to the beginning, to that dreadful day on the Causeway when he realized the enemy was actually his friend. Glancing at the others, he could see the same realization, the same question on their features: who was this woman, that Bucky would be willing to go back to the Winter Soldier to save her?

* * *

The attack went in a blur of blood, gore and screams for Yasha. All that mattered was getting to Ryann before these monsters touched her, before they could inflict one more wound, one more bruise upon her already battered and scarred body. _I'm coming_ , he chanted in his head, _I'm coming._

 _Don't die._

He kicked in yet another door, and stopped dead in his tracks, mindless of the others coming to a stop behind him. She was here, and it was even worse in real life than it had been on the screen. Her skin, usually tan and healthy under the scars, was so white it was almost transparent. Gashes littered her limbs and torso, bare feet inches off the ground, one ankle horribly swollen. Her wrists were a horrible mess of flesh and blood, red almost covering her arms in mostly dried patches. A broken gasp echoed around the room, and he only dimly realized it had fallen from his own lips before he was standing in front if her, cradling her face—jaw bruised and swollen, not broken, broken cheekbone, bleeding nose—in his palms, the metal arm handling her more with a delicacy it had never been designed to be capable of.

"Ryann..." A quick glance, Steve was already cutting the chains, and she slumped in Bucky's awaiting arms. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her to the ground, her head lolling against his shoulder as he gathered her in his lap. God, she was so cold... She moaned, eyes fluttering, and he brushed his metal fingers against her cheek, featherlight and fleeting in fear of hurting her more. But it seemed to ground her, and she cracked her eyes open, struggling to focus, until her gaze finally cleared and zeroed in on him.

"You came."

"Of course I did."

"You left before."

He swallowed hard, eyes burning. It wasn't an accusation, or a reproach, just a statement, and he wanted to slap himself for being this stupid, this ignorant as to believe that leaving her would be better for her in the long run, that she wouldn't think he'd gotten sick of her, or disgusted, and that he'd just abandoned her like all the others.

"I thought I was protecting you," he confessed, his voice raspy and broken. "I was stupid."

"Very." She shifted a little, gasped. It was obvious she was trying not to give in to the pain, that she wanted to be brave, but he knew her enough to see that she was in agony. Very gently, he stood, Ryann a precious bundle held tight against his chest. She sighed a little as he wrapped her up in a blanket, never letting go, even though Bruce was glaring at him from his seat in the Quinjet. But he knew, from the weak grip Ryann had on his uniform, that she would rather stay in his arms than be examined. He also knew she hated hospitals: she'd been through enough of those during her childhood and early adulthood. So he held on to her and ignored the others' curious looks, grateful for Tony's babbling, which sometimes managed to distract both Steve and Bruce. It never lasted, but it was enough. Just like himself, Tony knew when people needed to be left alone. They were similar, the three of them.

"This is nice," Ryann sighed after a bit. "Last time was when Draco..." She trailed off, but he heard the hitch to her breathing, and pressed his lips to her forehead. When the mask had gone, he didn't know. Didn't care.

"Don't talk. Save your strength."

One bleary eye glared up at him, and he brushed a greasy strand of hair from her face. "I'm not made of gla..."

"I know," Bucky assured, "trust me, I know. You're the strongest person I've ever met. And I know a lot of strong people."

She scoffed at that last part, although her eyes brightened upon seeing the way his lips twitched upwards. "Yeah. Can't believe I didn't realize Steve and Tony were _Steve and Tony._ Should've known." She burrowed deeper into his chest, lashes fluttering shut in exhaustion. "Guess now I can finally meet them instead of listening to you ramble on and on."

Steve chuckled but refrained from commenting on Bucky's reddening face. Tony, however, had no such compunctions. "Oh, you been talking about me, Buckaroo? I knew there was no way anyone could resist this kind of perfection."

Bucky flipped him off as Steve guffawed, slipping an arm around Tony's shoulders to bring him close. Ryann laughed, before breaking out into a painful fit of coughing. "Ooh, I like him. But don't make me laugh. It hurts."

Slowly, the atmosphere eased and the Avengers started their own conversations. Ryann fell asleep some time into the flight, and Bucky watched over her, a silent sentinel standing guard over their most precious person.

* * *

So she woke up, once again. And once again, it was to the white walls and sterile atmosphere of a hospital room. Ryann groaned. A low chuckle on her right had her snapping up, only to hiss in pain. A large hand on her shoulder gently pushed her back down. She complied mindlessly, far too preoccupied with the familiar blue eyes peering down at her.

"Yasha?" She croaked. His lips quirked up. Directing a straw to her lips, he helped her drink some water before putting the glass back on the nightstand.

"How are you feeling?" Ryann rolled her shoulders a little, wincing.

"Like I got run over by a truck. What happened? Who were these guys?"

His expression darkened. "My former...employers. HYDRA."

"HYDRA? Isn't that the Nazi organization that was destroyed by Captain America during World War II?"

"They survived," Yasha grit out. "I was their prisoner for seventy years."

Ryann's eyes widened. "Seventy—never mind. We'll talk about it when my brain doesn't feel like mush." She peered up at him, features softening in concern, and asked, very softly, "Are you okay?"

The laugh that bubbled from his chest was nothing short of hysterical, and when she grabbed for his hand, he clasped his fingers around hers almost desperately. "Am I—Am _I_ okay? Ryann, I almost got you killed! I left you without a word, abandoned you to be kidnapped by a group of vicious murderers, and you're asking me if _I'm_ okay? I'm just fine! _You're_ not okay!" His voice had been rising with every word, and he was almost shouting by the end of his tirade. The door opened, Steve's blond head poking through.

"Is everything alright in here? I heard shouting."

Bucky froze instantly, looking a mixture of crushed and guilty, eyes skittering everywhere but to Ryann's prone form. The woman, however, merely waved exasperatedly at Steve. "Everything's just fine. Your best friend's just being an idiot."

Steve snorted. "Yeah, it seems he's been doing a lot of that, lately. Well then, I'll leave you guys to it. Holler if you need something." And, ignoring Bucky's glare, he disappeared once more, leaving a dead silent room.

"Are you done now?" Yasha jumped slightly, but nodded. He felt foolish, exhausted, inadequate. "Look at me. _Yasha_." Slowly, he raised his eyes, and then fell completely still when he met her gaze. She squeezed his hand. "Listen to me this time, Yasha. You're an idiot, that's a given. But I'm a big girl, and I can take care of myself. War veteran, remember? I spent months in a dungeon cell being tortured once, and believe it was nothing like those HYDRA amateurs. If anything, it was my fault for getting complacent and letting myself get caught. In fact, I'll start training again as soon as I'm out of here. And _you_ will stop beating yourself up this instant. Got it?"

He nodded, very slowly, blinking owlishly. But there was something lighter in his bearing now, the loosening line of his shoulders, and she knew she'd at last gotten through to him. It made the knot in her chest tighten unbearably as she thought of her next question, and she swallowed hard.

"Now, I have only one question for you, and I need you to answer honestly, without consideration for my feelings or anything other than yourself." Yasha leaned forward. Ryann closed her eyes and hid her heart. When she reopened them, they were full of resolve. "Do you want a relationship with me?" His mouth opened instantly, but she squeezed his fingers again. "Think about it and be honest, Yasha. I'd rather know today than..." she couldn't say it. She burrowed into her pillows instead, and let out a slow breath.

The silence was deafening. Then, when she thought he wouldn't answer, something brushed against her cheek, and she blinked up at him. "For someone so smart and strong, you sure are dumb sometimes, you know?" She frowned. "I didn't leave because I didn't want you," he said gently. "I left because I heard HYDRA was moving, and I didn't want them to go after you in their efforts to get me back. I just wanted to keep you safe." She squinted, a vague memory of the day before, and the trip back from the facility she'd been held in, bugging her. But before she could pinpoint it, Yasha was talking again, and she gave him her undivided attention.

"You're everything, Ryann. The mere thought of losing you was unbearable. You helped me back on my feet and accepted me without question when I was clearly not a good person to be around. I knew you'd been scarred. I knew you'd been through a lot. I was an idiot for not telling you what was going on. I thought you'd be safer that way." He pressed her knuckles to his lips. "I'm sorry."

She smiled tiredly at him, a dim light in verdant irises, but she was clearly still holding back, uncertain, and so he said it. "If you'll have me, I'll be honored to call you my dame."

At first, it was like she didn't understand, or she didn't dare, but then, her entire body relaxed and her eyes lit up like the sun. Yasha felt the air leave his lungs at the sight. Even in a hospital bed with cuts and scars all over her body, she was the most radiant sight he'd ever seen in his life, and he wondered what he'd done to deserve her. He surged upwards, laying her hand gently over the covers before cupping her face and brushing his lips over hers once, twice.

When they parted at last, she smiled up at him, eyes drooping with fatigue. "Stay," she demanded.

And really, how could he refuse her?

* * *

No one looked up when the elevator dinged open, but that changed quickly when they heard not one, but two steps of footsteps, one of them slow and hesitant and the other, careful and measured. Natasha's eyes widened at the sight that greeted her. The woman—Ryann Black—was leaning against Bucky, his arm around her waist as she walked. She looked exhausted, bruises littering her skin, although they looked infinitesimally better than the last time she'd seen her, at the hospital with a half-feral former assassin standing guard by her bedside. Her hair had been pulled into a low ponytail over her shoulder, and there was a soft smile pulling at her lips as she glanced up at her escort with fond exasperation, but there's undeniable love in there, and Natasha felt something ease in her at the confirmation that Bucky's devotion was obviously returned.

The super soldier is handling her with a care she'd never seen him show anyone before, almost plastering himself against her as he helped her forward. It was obvious she didn't really need it, but was willing to humor him, to reassure him she was really there and she was fine. They were fine.

Bucky led her over to an empty couch and sat at her side, watching the room with careful eyes before turning his attention back to her as Ryann elbowed him. They stared at each other mutely, only for him to raise his hands in surrender with an amused huff as she ended up raising an eyebrow that seemed to ask "well?". Then, he turned to the team, fingers slipping through Ryann's, and it was only Natasha's trained eyes that allowed her to catch the subtle movement as Ryann squeezed his hand gently.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet Ryann Black." He paused, glanced down at her with a mischievous smile, and Steve had never looked so happy in all their years of friendship as he watched the couple, Tony's body nestled against his on the loveseat. "She's my dame."

Ryann laughed, and so did Bucky, eyes sliding half-closed as he nuzzled her hair.

Natasha smiled.

* * *

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